


Life is but a Dream

by loveaeviternally



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Anduin - Freeform, Angst, Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 17:17:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3419039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveaeviternally/pseuds/loveaeviternally
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Faramir sees the boat. He then sees Boromir, who has returned from Rivendell, having declined the request to join the Fellowship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Life is but a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> I was rereading all the parts of the book where Boromir makes an appearance or is at least mentioned, when all of a sudden my little cousin started humming _Row, row, row your boat_. It was like a calling from Tolken.  
>  +I own none of these characters and no plagiarism of any kind is intended.  
> ++Obviously (or so I think) the nursery rhyme used in the fic didn't exist in Middle Earth or Gondor, but it fit too well for me to let it go.

—

“No, no, _no_.”

Faramir’s fingers clutched on to the tattered cloth, knuckles white and veins protruding, as if they were _his_ last lifeline, _his_ last garments to ever be donned. A distant ray of sun seeping in through the mist allowed him to speculate, albeit flickeringly, his brother’s face. Such a tranquil, beautiful mien on such a cold body, he thought, and immediately chided himself for it.

A promise had been made a long time ago, and he knew his brother was one more likely to set himself on fire than break an oath. An unlikely promise that was difficult— _impossible_ —to keep, that Faramir had never forgotten. Every day and night when Boromir was out of the city—for, were he in Minas Tirith, he would make sure to pay Faramir a visit once a day at least—doing whatever tasks Father assigned him that he durst not trust Faramir with, Faramir would whisper the words to himself with his sheets drawn to his chin in order to fall asleep. More than once had he discovered that the method was more than a little childish, and with every realization he had tried to change the ritual, to force himself to bed with his teeth clamped and ears covered. He would always end up reciting the phrase in his head anyway, and it would take him just a week or two to accidentally let it slip. The cycle returned several times, the last of which was declared foolish as Faramir finally realized that it put him to sleep, and that was the end of it. It needed not be a big deal.

And now, here he was, regretting all those years the words had been engraved onto his tongue, so thoroughly so that to fill them up anew would take decades and centuries. If only he had forgotten those silly exchange of vows like any other child would, _should_ , he wouldn’t have had to find himself here.

(But how could he have managed _that_? When he was only six years old, lonely and terrified of the night? With his mother gone, not even his nanny stayed to tuck him in; for Denethor was certain that such an act would suck the qualities of a warrior out of the baby, and what little of it Faramir had, too. How could he have been so cruel to himself, to refuse himself the only reassurance that someone loved him, and that said someone would always stay with him?)

“Speak to me, Boromir,” he pleaded. He thought he tasted something salty trickling down his face—blood? Tears? He didn’t think about what Denethor would think had it been the latter, or what he would say. It mattered not. “ _Please_ , just— _something_. Oh, I beg you so.”

But the dead do not talk, and neither did the body that lay in the Elven boat. Not for a very long time.

The sky started clearing above the two brothers. The mountains expectorated the sun as if it was wine with a bad aftertaste, and the thick, wet curtains that hung in the air were drawn to reveal a canvas of pale blue. As the cloud faded away, it almost seemed as if the boat before him did to.

Faramir wept as the Anduin took Boromir, both literally and figuratively.

—

“ _Faramir_?”

Faramir’s heart stopped dead in its tracks. For a moment he doubted his own hearing and thought himself mad, or subjected to some new form of black wizardry that played with mortal minds. Certain of Boromir’s death as he had witnessed it with his own eyes, a part of him wished the voice would go away, for he felt it disrespectful towards his brother to let himself be tricked into thinking something on Middle Earth could replace him. Another, secretly bigger, part of Faramir wished that it would go on, however—he wished that all the mountains of Gondor would echo with it for years to come, so that he could store the voice in his mind and replay it whenever he felt he would fall. Never mind it being trickery; he cared for little else than hearing his brother at the moment.

“Faramir, it _is_ you indeed! I had almost convinced myself I’d lost you! Do you know how pained I was to return to my beloved city and be welcomed by all else but my own brother?”

 _It could not be_ , Faramir hissed at himself. _It cannot be him, so do not turn around. Do not turn around and see the deception for what it really is, for that will be the second time you are rewarded with the solid proof of his death, the brutal truth that will bring you to your knees and keep you there till nightfall._

But Faramir, he had always been a fool. And a fool had its bright moments; when Faramir turned around with dread and anticipation, he was tackled to the ground by a frame slightly bigger than his. He would have dodged the attack with experience had he been his usual self, but today he lay limp. Water gushed over his vision and for a split second he thought to himself that this was the last thing he would see. And then a hand on his shoulder pulled him up and shook him.

“Are you alright, Faramir?” Boromir’s forehead was laced with concern as he placed his thumb over Faramir’s lip. It had cracked open and was coated with a smear of blood. “What ails you so, that you shake and shiver? Your tutor told me that you were having trouble sleeping, and thus went out to see the Anduin—it seems to me that the water has not been of much help.”

Faramir could not find himself to look at him straight in the eyes, for the image from a few minutes—hours, days, seconds, he could not recall anymore—ago still lingered in the back of his head. The man in the boat _had_ been Boromir, Faramir was sure; the same texture of skin, the same sword, and the same smile he wore when he was having a good dream.

“It was nothing,” Faramir lied.

Boromir scoffed. He held the younger close, pushing a strand of hair out of his face, and pressed their noses together. Just like he would when they were young and Faramir was feeling down because a squirrel died, a leaf fell, or Denethor was accusing him of misdoings that Faramir knew nothing about.

Faramir gasped, even though his body instantly leaned into the embrace. Boromir was warm, warm like the fires of Moria, and the arms that held him tight were as alive as could be.

“You know I’ll find out eventually, little one,” Boromir said. His every word was a tickly breath on Faramir’s lips, and he smelled like berries and ale.

“I—I saw something, brother. It was a boat, Elven in structure and material, light and quick on the stream even with the—the cargo.” He paused, considering all the possible wordings to the upcoming description. “The boat carried a man, who was cold and clearly deceased. His hands were folded over the hilt of a sword, and he wore a face of a warrior that falls in battle.”

Boromir sighed and gave Faramir a tight squeeze. “I presume you recognized the face? Don’t let it rot and worry you, just tell me.”

“It was _you_ , Boromir,” Faramir admitted, in one quick breath as if he were spitting out poison. “I could not have mistaken the sight if I tried.”

“Mhm,” Boromir mused, thoughtful. “But I see no boat, Faramir.”

“It was here just some time ago.” Faramir looked around them to see for himself that indeed there was no boat, none Elven and carrying a corpse. “On this very river, and I thought I too will drown in it.”

“Don’t say such things, now!” Boromir scolded. “And that brings me to think; we are both standing in water, as wet as rats in the rain! I was so overwhelmed to see you that it never occurred to me to walk out before we talked, as you always have things to talk about. More or less, I should say.”

Faramir complied when Boromir led him to dry ground, glad to be out of the waters that had brought him such dreadful vision, be it a simple daydream or a foresight into the future. Boromir settled down next to his horse and Faramir followed suit, scooting closer to his brother for the warmth of his skin and the shelter his arms provided.

“You said it was I you saw in the boat?” Boromir asked once they had both settled, voice gruff and slightly troubled. Faramir could always read his brother like a book.

“Yes, Boromir. But not _this_ , you were…dead.”

“Dead,” Boromir murmured, the word dull and foreign on his tongue. “Was it one of your visions, do you guess? The ones that—?”

Faramir gulps and stays silent for a moment, breathing in his brother’s scent. He wishes for the world to stop in this very moment so that he has to speak not and listen instead, to the silky roughness of Boromir’s words and the sweet songs and promises that play at the back of Faramir’s mind whenever Boromir is close. Faramir rarely gets to feel this cherished, this _loved_ , and he hates that his cursed visions and madness has to interrupt this sweet moment they are seldom allowed.

“I do not know if it was just my mind wandering, dreading the worst as I always do, or if it was a forewarning of some event that is to come. But I would be on my guard, Boromir. And I mean that _I_ , as well as yourself, should be, for I will certainly lose my mind were I to see such a sight a second time.”

Boromir lifted his eyes from the Anduin and turned them to Faramir, deep pools of gray that never failed to mesmerize the younger at the most inappropriate of times. “But it was an Elven boat, did you say not? Yet I have returned from Rivendell as you can see, a piece whole enough to carry. Your dreams, and mine too, were discussed, and the council assigned a quest to a certain Fellowship. They wanted a Man in it also—”

“Oh no,” Faramir nearly screamed. “And you said yes. You said _yes_ , did you not?”

Boromir laughed; if anyone could laugh in a situation as grave as this, it was Boromir. “You must relax, little brother! I declined—yes, _politely_ —and suggested Éomer, the Rider of Rohan, journey in my stead. He would be more help than I in a journey consisting more of going forward than battling; besides, I figured you would disagree with my going. My place is in Gondor, protecting my people.” And then he added, to the flutter of Faramir’s heart, “My place is next to you, my brother, fighting back to back, if all that is left of the White City is but a speck of dirt.”

“Oh Boromir,” Faramir sighed in relief. “You scared me so!”

“And now you see there was no reason for the fright,” Boromir said, good-naturedly. “I don’t plan on going back to any Elf-loaded city too soon; the journey is wearying and proved mostly fruitless. The feasts were good, I must admit, and the songs and dances were of the most delicate beauty—”

“It seems to me as if you wish to return tomorrow,” Faramir teased. Boromir crinkled his nose at that, smiling like the children they used to be.

“—But the Elves were much too pointy and posh for my taste,” the elder concluded. “They are all polite and brimming with stories, but they don’t know how to sit down and chug good ale. Very few of them seemed to consume any form of liquor at all, and those that did appeared unaffected by it after their eleventh cup. Very impressive, but also unnatural, to me at least.”

“I see,” Faramir said. He didn’t see, in all honesty, as he had barely focused, but it mattered little because he now knew that his brother would be safe. And to think that he had panicked so just a few moments ago! He could almost laugh at his own silliness. “But we must still be on guard, as we know nothing for certain. Maybe you should stay at Gondor for a few months at least, just to be safe.”

Boromir smiled lopsidedly, and it was one of those rare things about his older brother that Faramir couldn’t decipher. It was okay, however—Faramir let him have his secrets.

“I wonder if that’s for my good, or for your own,” Boromir chuckled, amused.

“It is for the sake of Gondor,” Faramir claimed. He knew that his cheeks were reddening and buried his face into Boromir’s chest, inhaling the smell of sweat and blood on the thick, maroon leather.

Then, for the second time that day, Boromir tackled him to the ground. Caught off guard and still cradled in Boromir’s arms, Faramir fell directly to the ground. Before the second attack landed, which would be the ‘tickle monster’ as Boromir had titled it when Faramir was three and their mother was alive, Faramir rolled to the side, leaving Boromir to hit the ground just as the younger had done. Faramir knew that Boromir’s reflexes were much quicker than this, a knowledge that made this game of tackle much more precious.

Before he could savor the successful avoidance of disaster, however, Boromir pulled his arm and he squeaked in surprise, as Boromir rolled them over so that Faramir was panting on the ground beneath Boromir’s sturdy arms that stood like trustworthy pillars.

Faramir did not dare to move. He had found himself in this position more than a few times in the past, and he always discovered that he was unable to flinch, incapable of any action other than watching, just watching. Boromir was so big like this, towering above him like a cloud, big but never threatening; more protecting, like a strong roof that shielded one from rainstorms. His eyes were glistening with the light the water reflected, clear gray with so many layers. His lips were pursed but not tightly, loose enough so that Faramir would only have to steer himself up on one arm to—

 _To what?_ Faramir asked himself, but he knew the answer just as he always had. Boromir was beautiful and Faramir would sell his own soul to kiss him.

He realized that he had subconsciously licked his lips, and his eyes blew up wide in mortification. He staggered back on his elbows, shaking the unholy thought from his mind. Boromir would _never_ want him in such a way, he shouted at himself. That itself was more pain than the shame of the idea of wanting him brought.

But then Boromir’s lips closed around his and Faramir was allowed to fantasize, to close his eyes and let himself believe that this was real. It was no dream, this, with Boromir’s calloused hand placed like an anchor on Faramir’s beating heart. Boromir’s were a morning’s tea kind of warm, chestnut brown and gold, and Faramir gets lost him them like he does in so many aspects of Boromir—his eyes, his touches, his words, and his _love_.

In that moment, when Boromir’s lips imprinted their marks on Faramir’s like a tattoo of a lover’s name, Faramir felt so incredibly loved. And he thrived in the feeling, yearned for it; it was like being six and clueless again, sitting in Boromir’s lap as he cried for mother. _She’s not here, Fari_ , Boromir would tell him. He was eleven at the time, old enough to know enough. _She’s up there, in the sky. She’s watching you and she loves you so, so don’t you cry little one_. And Faramir would continue crying, saying _But you said that she’s not here! What good is her love, if she’s not here?_

Had Boromir attempted to explain the concept of true love to a child of only six years old, he would have failed and Faramir would have carried an empty heart around for the rest of his days. But Boromir was wise. _If you are so lonely, then_ I _can give you her love_ , he had said, holding little Faramir’s hand. _Remember, Faramir, I will always love you. You are my brother and the only one I too have left, not counting father—he is a mean old man, but not at heart. Mother’s departure made him so, because he feels that he isn’t loved. So you, Fari, must remember and never forget, lest you turn cold like him_.

Faramir had been so confused, crinkling his tiny nose. _But you’ll go up there too, in the sky, just like mother. That’s what you said, Bori. You said everybody goes there_. Faramir remembered how he had snuggled up close to Boromir, then, so worried and scared. _I don’t want to be like Father, Bori! What do I do when you go?_

Boromir had laughed. _I won’t, then. We’ll both go on the very same day, and we’ll love each other until the very end._

_Promise?_

_I promise, Fari. Now, let’s stop crying and see if Cook has any chocolate left from yesterday._

But six-year-old Faramir’s mind had been much too busy, even for chocolate. He had sat there in awe, hiccups shaking his throat, reiterating his brother’s words so that they didn’t get lost like light promises do. When Boromir had finally returned with the chocolate, Faramir had fallen asleep.

Boromir hadn’t gotten angry, however. Instead, he had lifted the little one up in his arms and carried him to bed, singing him to sleep like their mother used to.

“Do you remember the promise?” Faramir asked softly, his voice barely heard through the violent stomping of his heart in his ribcage.

“I remember all promises,” Boromir replied, the lopsided smile back on his lips. “ _We’ll both go on the very same day_.”

“ _And we’ll love each other until the very end_ ,” Faramir finished. “Will we, Boromir?”

“Of course,” Boromir said simply, like Faramir had asked him if he knew how to count. And that was that, because Boromir leaned in for another kiss, and this time Faramir was ready.

They rolled to their sides as their arms flung over each other, both too eager to touch every part of each other that they possibly could as the kiss deepened. Boromir’s scruff tickled Faramir’s neck and he giggled his brother’s lips like a maiden, which earned a fond smile of the eyes from Boromir and a contradictory kiss of ravishing nature.

The two Men lay on the grass like that for a long time, not able to get enough of the other. Because while both were certain that their love for the other was of the highest degree, neither were able to write a book on what was acceptable in this sort of relationship and what was not. And today, another invisible line that Faramir had made up in his head had been crossed and thus proved nonexistent.

“Oh, I love you, Boromir,” Faramir panted as their lips parted. “In every way possible—you are the light of my life. I cannot go to sleep without hearing your voice, or tricking myself into thinking that I did. I could not live a single second without your presence or the knowledge of you coming back to me.”

There was something in Boromir’s eyes that Faramir noticed, something that glinted under the sun. Almost like tears. “I love you just as much, little brother, if not more,” he said softly. “You are so much more than I could ever ask for, deserve.”

Faramir thought that it was the exact opposite, but never got to voice his thoughts out loud for he was interrupted by a loud yawn that wriggled its way out of his throat. And that was when he remembered that he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep last night, for when he’d attempted to get some fresh air in order to tire himself, he had ended up staring at that strange vision of a boat.

“You are tired,” Boromir whispered. “We should go back.”

Faramir shook his head. “I don’t want to, Boromir, for if I move at all, I fear that this moment will end.” He looked at his brother, eyes sparkling with hope. “We are far enough from the water for its licks to never reach us, and I am plenty comfortable here. Do you think that we could—”

“Of course we can stay here,” Boromir said. He ran his fingers down Faramir’s hair and leaned into press a gentle kiss on the bridge of his nose. “Good night, Faramir. I’ll wake you up before it gets too dark for us to travel.”

“Will you sing me to sleep?” Faramir pleaded. It was a lot to ask for, but he needed it. Even as a child, hearing Boromir’s sweet voice as he fell asleep, curled up like a shrimp, prevented all sorts of terrible nightmares from creeping into his head.

Boromir nodded, laying a hand on the side of Faramir’s face. His thumb went back and forth on the smooth skin, pushing off the dirt obtained from rolling in the ground like hogs, as he sang a little nursery rhyme:

_Row, row, row your boat,_  
 _Gently down the stream;_  
 _Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,_  
 _Life is but a dream._

—


End file.
